


The Orphans

by Alixtii



Series: The Fires of Love and Wrath [3]
Category: Arthurian Mythology
Genre: Education, F/M, Falling In Love, Female Protagonist, First Time, Incest, Magic, Nobility, POV Third Person, Past Tense, Romance, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 04:04:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alixtii/pseuds/Alixtii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The education of Morgan le Fay in the art of sorcery, and her romance with Arthur Pendragon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lothloriens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lothloriens/gifts).



“If I hear you have so much as . . .”

Sir Ector trailed off, letting the implied threat hang in the air; Arthur only sighed. Why did it always seem that his father was totally incapable of dealing with him? And why did his father automatically assume he would be trouble?

He wouldn’t; Arthur could interact maturely with a guest. But Sir Ector seemed unable to see anything but a much younger Arthur, one who would hide frogs in beds and pull other relatively harmless pranks. But he had grown, had matured. Why did his father still act as if he believed Arthur had no understanding of common civility.

“I shall be good, father,” Arthur promised, unsure if anything he could do would reassure the old man. “But does she have to come?”

It was the wrong thing to say, Arthur realized as soon as he said it. Sir Ector looked at him, disapprovingly. No doubt his father took his question as further evidence of his unfitness to interact with people whatsoever. But having said it, Arthur pushed on, “I mean, did we have to invite her?”

“Of course we did,” said the indignant Sir Ector. “Lord Erthwaile invited her for a fortnight. I intend to do no less.” What does that have to do with anything? Arthur wondered. Lord Erthwaile also—well, Arthur did not think Lord Erthwaile was the best of role models. “Besides,” Ector continued, “Living alone, with no one but servants and books—it isn’t healthy for a girl that age.”

That seemed to be more meaningful, but Arthur’s mind was quickly on other matters. “A girl that age”? _What_ age? The Lady of Cornwall was obviously not in her forties. How close, Arthur wondered, would she be to his own age?

Arthur was thinking about asking, when his tutor, Merlin, entered. “My lord,” he said to Ector, “may I have a word with you?”

Arthur glanced at Merlin. His tutor was very good at appearing impassive, but Arthur knew where to look to read him. Merlin’s eyes were always incredibly passionate, and Arthur could read agitation in them.

“What?” Sir Ector looked up, startled. “Oh, good day, Merlin.”

“Good day, sire. May I have a word with you?”

“Of course, Merlin,” Ector answered. “Anytime.”

Yet at that moment two sets of footsteps could be heard, coming up the stone steps outside the door of the chamber. “That’ll be Susanna, with the Lady Morgan,” Ector announced. “Arthur, if you make her Ladyship’s stay with us anything less than pleasurable—”

“Of course, father.”

* * *

“Here we are, m’lady.”

The Lady of Cornwall nodded to her retainer. Here they were, indeed. Another castle, so like many other castles at which she had stayed, a stone edifice rising from the ground to tower over the landscape. From inside the courtyard, she admired the distinctive characteristics of the architecture of Sir Ector’s castle, but it was not all that different from her own castle at Tintagel. The essential function of the castle necessarily limited the nature of the design.

“Lady Morgan?” An older woman approached the Lady’s retinue. “I am Susanna, housekeeper to Sir Ector. Welcome.” Morgan nodded thanks to the woman, and Susanna led the way into the corridors of the castle. “Just this way, m’lady.”

Morgan followed the housekeeper, mentally keeping track of where she was going. This was to be her home for the next month; it was a good idea to get a sense of where things were in the castle. Finally, at the top of a series of steps, they came to a chamber in which stood three men. “The Lady Morgan le Fay, m’lord,” Susanna introduced Morgan to the oldest man, who Morgan assumed must have been Sir Ector.

“We are delighted to have you with us,” Ector told her. “This is my son, Arthur.” He pointed at the younger man, still a boy as much as Morgan was still a girl.

Arthur stepped toward her. “Pleased to meet you, my lady.” Morgan watched Arthur examine her, sizing up the new stranger who had invaded his home and would stay for the next month. Morgan decided he was younger than she, perhaps by a couple of years. He was taller than her, of course, but not markedly so; she just missed being able to look him straight in the eye. He likes what he sees, Morgan thought, not without pride, especially as she could see him eying the way her dress hung from her body.

As Arthur continued to study her, Ector continued with the introductions. “This is Merlin, Arthur’s tutor. You’ve met before, I believe.”

“Yes,” answered Merlin, not taking his eyes off her. His gaze was not the innocent lust of Arthur; Morgan could feel his penetrating gaze, trying to ascertain the secrets of her soul. “When I served as advisor to the lady’s stepfather, King Uther. You were only a girl then, of course,” he added to her. “You’ve grown quite a bit since.”

Morgan nodded at the compliment. Merlin had not changed at all in the intervening nine years.

Merlin turned to Ector. “My lord?”

“Yes, Merlin?”

Merlin let loose a shallow sigh. “I wished to speak to you, my lord?”

“Oh, yes, of course, Merlin. I remember now.”

For several beats, no one said anything. Morgan just stood there, watching the three men interact—or not interact, as the case may be.

“In private, my lord?”

“Ah,” said Ector. He turned to his son. “Arthur, perhaps you could show the Lady Morgan the gardens?”

“Of course,” said Arthur, a small smile on his face.

“This way, my lady.” Morgan followed Arthur down the steps and back into the courtyard. As they descended, Arthur asked “What do you think they’re talking about? Merlin seemed . . . impatient.”

“Us.”

“Us?” Arthur said the word as if it were exotic.

“Undoubtedly,” Morgan answered. “Either you or me, but probably both of us. Why else would Merlin require privacy?”

“In that case, I hope they are saying good things about us?”

“You really believe that don’t you?” He looked at her with confusion. So young, so innocent, so full of naïveté. Had she ever been like that? “People rarely say good things when they aren’t present.”

“How can you say something bad about someone if you’re not there to say it?” Arthur asked, confused. Morgan had to laugh as she went over the sentence in her mind. Perhaps it was slightly ambiguous.

“Merlin has a problem with something,” Morgan explained. “Probably my visit. You said yourself that he seemed impatient. Has anything else of import happened lately?”

“Not that I can think of, my lady,” Arthur told her. “It’s not a very exciting place, here.”

“Then we’ll take my visit as the reason. He’s afraid of me, afraid I will upset his plans.” Silently, she vowed she would do just that. She had known Merlin for most of her life, and never grown to trust the man.

“Plans?”

“His plans for you, whatever they are. Merlin’s type always has something up their sleave. He’s not teaching you for your own edification.”

“Why not?”

Morgan shrugged. She didn’t trust Merlin, but couldn’t explain it to Arthur.

“So what do we do?” They had reached the gardens, and all around them, the trees and flowers were showing their first blossom. Arthur sat on a bench near the fountain; Morgan sat next to him.

“Do?” Morgan asked. She could tell Arthur didn’t understand the full truth of what she was saying. “Wait. Watch. Wonder. Live our lives to the fullest, and cause enough problems to give him nightmares.”

“How?”

Morgan smiled. She had a mischevious streak; she knew that.

She kissed him, hard. “My lady!” Arthur said, shocked, when she finally let him free.

“Sorry,” Morgan lied. “I grew up the step-daughter of the king. I’m not one to ask permission.”

Arthur nodded. She could see him thinking: a young girl, her every whim fulfilled, every wish granted, servants. . . . “It was grand, was it?”

So little does he understand. Morgan was about to give him a noncommittal answer, when she turned back and looked into the eyes of the boy she had just kissed. He really doesn’t understand, she realized. He’s never known loss, never known pain.

She raised her hand to her neck, slid it up under her hair. She felt she could trust Arthur—with her secrets, and with her pain. She pulled back her hair to reveal the scar at her temple. “That’s what I got from the king,” she said. “I was twelve. I have others.”

Emotions crossed Arthur’s face, afflicted, as he tried to come to terms with what Morgan had shown him. “My lady, I—” He couldn’t go on.

“You didn’t realize. Of course.” There were many things Arthur didn’t realize, Morgan could see. But was it her place to show them to him? “You’ve never known loss, have you?”

Arthur eyes dropped, embarrassed. “Not really. When my mother died, I was too young to understand. I’ve always had my father to turn to if I was in trouble—and for the last nine years, Merlin.” He paused. “It was—it was bad, wasn’t it?”

Morgan let loose a grim laugh. Arthur still had no way of grasping the scope of the world’s troubles.

_Flashback_.

“Suffice it to say,” she told Arthur, “the day my stepfather died was the happiest day of my life—although my mother hadn’t the strength to hold on another month. Britain was left without a king, and I, as well, was orphaned. Or freed. But those days are over, and that cloud has lifted. For the last nine years, I have lived my life in the here and now. Right now, I am here, in your gardens.”

“I am glad you are, my lady.”

* * *

“My lord, are you certain about the Lady Morgan’s visit?”

“Of course,” answered Ector. “Is there a reason why I shouldn’t be?”

“Remember,” said Merlin, “that I knew the lady in her younger years. She had quite a reputation for involving herself where she needn’t have.”

Ector dismissed it with a gesture. “All children go through that, it’s a stage. Besides, we can afford to have the Lady Morgan involved for a few weeks.”

“Perhaps you can, sire. I fear for the boy.”

“Arthur?” Ector asked. No, Merlin thought, the other boy—the invisible one. “The two of them will get along fabulously.”

Perhaps, mused Merlin. Perhaps a little too fabulously. “His studies—”

“There’s more to life than studies,” Ector said. “You teach him well, but there are other things he needs to learn. When you brought him to me, Merlin, I promised myself I would bring him up like my own son—and that I’d do it well.”

“Which you have, my lord,” Merlin assured him.

“No, Merlin, I’ve left him almost entirely to you. I can hardly deal with the boy.”

Now just leave him entirely to me and everything will be fine. “The girl—”

“The girl stays.” Ector spoke with a note of finality. The fool could be stubborn sometimes. “She’s just like Arthur. They’re both orphans, spending too much time with books and not enough with other people. The boy needs someone his own age, and so does she. They’ll be good for each other.”

With that he left Merlin alone in the room. Merlin turned and looked out the window at the two children; a black raven sat on the sill. “Her path is obscured to me,” he said. “She could be my downfall. Whatever she does here, it cannot be for our good. If the girl upsets my plans, there _will _be hell to pay. I so vow it, Nimue.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

“What is Merlin like?”

They were in the courtyard. Each morning, Arthur and Morgan would return to the gardens, and walk through them admiring the beauty around them. In the few days that Morgan had been there with him, spring had begun to draw out the beauty of each flower, shrub, and tree and present it to the world. Or perhaps it was simply that, standing there beside the Lady Morgan, he saw the familiar gardens in an entirely new way.

“My lady?”

“Merlin. Your tutor? When I knew him he always kept to himself—always well out of my way. Just him and the king.”

Arthur considered the question. Merlin was—well, Merlin was _Merlin_. In the nine years Arthur had had Merlin as a tutor, he had learned to take the man for granted. “He’s strict, but fair. As long as you keep your sums straight. . . .” He shrugged.

Morgan nodded. “The servants would tell such fantastic stories, of him turning himself into a dragon, or causing lightning strike a hundred yards away on a clear day. Killing with a look, or inspiring lust with a mere word. The hearsay and gossip of foolish servants intrigued me when I was young ; I was a romantic as a child, I’m afraid. He’s never shown you any magic? Never turned you into a fish or a squirrel?”

Why would I want to be a squirrel? “I’m sorry, my lady. If he knows any magic, he keeps it to himself.”

“He would,” she mused. “It’d be safer that way. But he’s your teacher, and think what a lesson it would be to see the Earth from the sky, flying through the clouds like a bird.”

Somehow he couldn’t imagine Merlin sending him up into the clouds just to look down at the Earth. He could see the ground from the ground already, after all. Then again, the very concept of Merlin using arcane arts to channel mystical energies seemed a little ridiculous to Arthur. Merlin was much too practical for that. “Merlin seems to stick with history, Latin, and geography with his lessons. A little philosophy, maybe.”

Morgan nodded, absent-mindedly. “A young girl’s fantasies, no doubt. Who hasn’t dreamt of powers that would transform this humdrum world of mediocrity into a fantastic world of inexplicable enchantment? It is a dream come true. . . .”

Arthur could understand that. When he was younger, he would play that he was the then-King Uther, ruling the armies of Britain from his massive throne, everyone making supplication and honoring him. He would take the most beautiful of the noble ladies as his Queen, and he would go off to war against Rome itself. But Morgan, growing up beside the real King Uther, knowing his dark side, Arthur could see how she would only be happy with a whole new world.

“Merlin’s just a normal—well he isn’t normal, my lady, but he certainly isn’t dangerous. He spends most of his time teaching me, of course, and his lessons aren’t easy, I assure. The rest of the time he works in his workshop.”

“Workshop?” Morgan’s eyes flashed with her curiosity. “What’s in it?”

“I don’t know, my lady. Even the servants aren’t allowed in it.”

Morgan stopped suddenly, then turned back towards the castle rooms. “Take me there,” she said.

What had he gotten himself into? “My, lady,” he pleaded, “if he finds me there. . .”

“Just show me the way,” she asked him. “Please. You can’t tell me you never disobeyed him before.”

Not in years, thought Arthur. “Very well, my lady,” he said, and sighed. Why was he doing this?

* * *

The stairs rose higher and higher as Morgan climbed the steps, Arthur in front of her. Stone upon stone, reaching up towards the heavens. Yet Morgan was intent on only one thing: what would she find when they reached the room to which Arthur was leading her? What would Merlin be hiding?

Suddenly, Arthur stopped. “Here we go, my lady,” he whispered. “Up another flight and to your left. I dare go no further.”

He turned to leave, but Morgan stopped him, grabbing his arm. “Thank you,” she said, then turned to the stairs. She continued climbing, until she came to a landing with, indeed, a large wood door on her left. She opened it just a crack at first, and peered through it to make sure no one was inside. When she was certain, she opened it completely and entered it, shutting it quietly behind her.

The room was small and sparse, bare except for a table, a chair, and a bookshelf. Spread open upon the table lay a Bible. Morgan read the verse:

> _ And in the latter time of their kingdom, when the transgressors are come to the full, a king of fierce countenance, and understanding dark sentences, shall stand up._
> 
> _ And his power shall be mighty, but not by his own power: and he shall destroy wonderfully, and shall prosper, and practice, and shall destroy the mighty and the holy people. _
> 
> _ And through his policy also he shall cause craft to prosper in his hand; and he shall magnify himself in his heart, and by peace shall destroy many: He shall also stand up against the Prince of princes; but he shall be broken without hand._

“Cheerful,” said Morgan. She turned to the bookcase. On the shelves laid the great classics of Homer, Ovid, Vergil, and a half dozen other great writers. All great literature, Morgan knew, as she had read every one of them. She looked more closely, and—

“Excuse me?”

Morgan jumped. She had not heard Merlin come in. “Oh, you startled me,” she said, rambling. “I didn’t hear you come in. I . . . was lost . . . and I found myself . . . here.”

“And where were you going that you lost yourself in the western tower?”

What could she say? “Oh, to the . . . well, it seems I have . . . forgotten. No matter. I had better be on my way. . . .”

“Go down the staircase and make a right,” Merlin told her. “You’ll find yourself in the main corridor. From there, perhaps you will remember your destination.”

Relieved, Morgan made her way to the door.

“Oh, and Mistress Morgan?”

“Yes?” she answered, meekly.

“My workshop is off-limits. Do not let me find you here again.”

* * *

Morgan crossed her fingers and pressed herself against the wall, sure that the white of her nightgown would stand out in the dark castle, as a chambermaid wielding a casdle hurried by. Yet the maid passed as if she had not seen Morgan. Relieved, Morgan let out a quiet sigh and continued on through the dark corridor.

She took a candle from the wall as she climbed the staircase to Merlin’s workshop. The stone was cold beneath her feet, and this night the walk up the stairs seemed a long and arduous trek. Nonetheless, she pushed onward, and upward.

In time, she came to that small room atop the western tower.

Cautiously, she entered. Once again, it was empty. The Bible on the table was opened to the same page; nothing seemed to have been touched since that morning. Morgan held the candle against the bookcase, letting the light shine on the books. Once again, she searched the bookcase for something that would reveal Merlin’s plans.

Come on, Merlin, she thought to herself. We both know you are hiding something, just as you were hiding things when I was a child. I saw through you then, and I see through you now. Hallo! What was that? A small, thin, white book about two-thirds down the bookcase seemed out of place. She pulled it out to examine it further.

Suddenly, the wall next to the bookcase slid open, the gray stones grinding as they moved out to reveal a small room. Eureka! The room was lined with wood, and attached to one of the walls was a lever, which was attached to an intricate-looking series o pulleys, gears, chains, and ropes. She pulled the lever, and suddenly the small room began to slowly descend.

Deeper and deeper the room descended—at least a hundred feet, Morgan guessed. Undoubtedly she was being taken beneath ground, beneath even the cellars of Ector’s castle. What Morgan would find in these secret catacombs, she had no idea. Even she had no idea that Merlin’s plans were this involved. Did he know of the existence of this secret room—and of whatever lay beneath the castle—before he came to Ector to teach Arthur?

Finally, the room lowered itself into a very large cavern beneath the castle. Morgan exited cautiously, exploring. This was Merlin’s true workshop, Morgan knew,. The place was filled with cauldrons and cabinets and bookshelves. And in the center, working over a large cauldron, was Merlin himself, his silhouette cast onto the wall.

Carefully keeping herself out of sight, Morgan walked to one of the bookshelves. She removed a volume from its shelf, and opened it to a page towards the back of the text. As she did so, a black cat rubbed against her leg. Morgan bent down to scratch the cat between the ears; the cat purred softly.

The page was filled with diagrams, runes, and incantations. A spell book, she realized. Her childish mind, desperate for relief from the mediocrity of existence, had hit upon the right answer. The servants were correct. Merlin was a magician.

Morgan flipped through the book, trying to make sense of the diagrams and the charts. Finally, she came to a spell, which—if she read the strange characters correctly—was a simple incantation, requiring no other components.

“_J’ry’th chg’a’al ok’nar_,” Morgan said, reading the words. Nothing happened. Dismayed, she put down the book, and picked up another. She read:

> _. . . that magic is more than the uttering of foreign words over exotic ingredients, require instead an outreaching of the mind, a channeling of supernatural forces. This is why, although anyone can memorize a few words, only a select few have the talents to be wizards . . . _

She put the book down, picked the first book up again. She had lost her original page, but she quickly found another simple-looking spell, this one which required a few material components. Rummaging though a nearby cabinet, she found a few evergreen sprigs and held them in her cupped hands. Ready, she recited the spell.

“_La’ala kar inlar_.” Nothing happened.

Reach out with your mind, Morgan reminded herself. Channel the supernatural forces. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the spell. “_La’ala kar inlar_.”

She felt a warmth in her hands, and opened her eyes to see flame pass over the sprigs. She had cast the spell! A surge of exultation sped through her.

“_Ralni rak ala’al_,” she cast, referencing the spellbook for the counterspell. The flame disappeared.

Next to her, the black cat mewed.

* * *

Morgan sat next to Arthur on that bench next to the fountain. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” asked Arthur, staring at the blossoms on the trees and flowers.

“Yes,” said Morgan. “Very beautiful.” Should she, Morgan wondered, tell him what she found the night before? She looked at the trees that he was admiring, So idyllic, so serene, if only it would stay that way forever. But soon the blossoms would become fruit, which would be eaten by animals, and then winter would come and the tree would be stripped bare. But for now, there was only beauty.

Arthur was at peace. Let him keep that peace for as long as possible.


	3. Chapter 3

The cat had grown used to her presence. When Morgan exited the small secret room which had brought her down from the tower, it purred and brushed up against her leg. “And how are you, tonight?” she asked the cat as she scratched between its ears. She went on towards the huge bookcase, as she did every night, and pulled a tome from its shelves.

> _Magical elixirs create a matrix within Faerie, a predetermined pattern for mystical energy. When these patterns interact with those generated by the human body, the circuit is completed and the flow of Faerie creates the desired effect. When the effect is merely to cause the subject to lose immediate consciousness, . . ._

Faerie? Morgan was still uncertain what some of the terminology meant, but as she read from the arcane texts each night, she began to get a better understanding of what this magic stuff was all about. The trick was learning to become in tune with the mystical currents, to train the mind to be able to capture more and more complicated patterns, such as those used to create the potions she just read about. From what she could tell, Merlin was particularly interested in potions; even now, he leant over his cauldron, adding ingredients one by one—a white, powdery dust, followed by some type of ash, a large eggshell, a snakeskin—_was that a human eye?_

Morgan skimmed ahead in the book in front of her.

__

> _One of the darkest of potions is the _

pu-lyr’amente_, or mindwipe. Made with chalk, a skin of an adder, the eye of a woman killed on a full moon, the ashes of a burnt pigeon, and the shell of a dragon egg, the potion dissipates psychic energy—leaving the imbiber an empty but living vessel, able to be manipulated through a variety of alchemical means. _

Why couldn’t Merlin’s potions do useful things like cure warts? Merlin always was brewing destruction in one form or another, it seemed. Yet what he was working toward was as much a mystery to her as ever. What drove the enchanter’s penchant for destruction? She had no idea.

There seemed to be little as of yet that Morgan could do to stop him, however, so Morgan simply put the book down and picked up another one. The spells in this book were more complex, more intricate than the ones she had tried in the week and a half she had been studying Merlin’s spellbooks. In that time, Morgan had been able to expand her ability at these spells considerably.

Picking an athame up off the table, Morgan knelt down to the dirt floor of the workshop, cutting a pentagram into the ground, preparing for yet another spell. 

*          *          *

“You don’t seem yourself today.”

Did Arthur know her so well that he could say when she wasn’t herself? Morgan asked herself with not a little anger. What made the face she showed Arthur every other day her true self, while the one she wore now was not? Yet if anyone knew, it was Arthur. He knew her better than anyone living—which wasn’t very difficult, Morgan admitted to herself ruefully.

Here she was, in the garden, walking with Arthur as she had every day, as she had with no one else. Morgan had lived alone in her castle at Tintagel since the age of twelve, with only her servants to keep her company, or visiting the castles of lords and their ladies or of knights, such as Sir Ector. Never before, however, had she ever found anyone like Arthur, who took such an interest in her.

Yet if she had opened herself so much to Arthur, why didn’t she tell him the truth about Merlin?

“I have things on my mind,” she admitted.

Arthur clasped her hand. “Is everything alright?”

Was it? Who ever knew? Yet Morgan found herself squeezing Arthur’s hand in hers. “Yes,” she said. “Everything’s fine.”

* * *

_Cetare regn’ada siter regn’ai. Vi’ada cindr’ai. _Morgan opened her eyes. Where there had been nothing before, a blackthorn shrub now stood. _Cindr’ada vi’ai_. _Siter regn’ada cetare regn’ai. _Morgan reached out, felt its being-ness, and then, with a mental twist, made it disappear.

She had mastered all the spells to be found within this bookcase. The only thing to do was move on. There was a cabinet in the corner of the room, with two dragons, locked in combat, engraved on the door. She would see what would be found within it.

Staying within the shadows, Morgan made her way to the cabinet, taking pains to avoid being seen by Merlin as he hovered over his cauldron. Her hand was over the handle when suddenly there was a long shrieking mew.

Morgan turned, startled, to see the black cat behind her. Yet Merlin too had been attracted by the earsplitting mew. She could see his eyes on her as she struggled to control herself. Frozen by paralyzing fear, she could barely whisper “_Y’ral sa kin tral avianus_” and trasnsform into a bird.

Merlin only smiled as the bird flew towards the lift. “_Y’ral sa kin tral Morgana_.” Morgan found herself in human form again.

Merlin picked up the cat, scratched it behind its ears. “It seems you have caught a mouse, my pet,” he said. “Welcome,” he added to Morgan. “It seems you have a talent for magic.”

If only she could show Merlin, thought Morgan. She’d give him a taste of her talent.

The cat mewed in Morgan’s arms, and Merlin laughed. “Where are my manners?” he asked, as he set it down on a counter. “Nimue, this is Morgan le Fay, Lady of Cornwall. Mistress Morgan, this—”

Suddenly, the cat’s shape blurred and began to grow, reaching higher until the dark mass stood as high as Morgan’s breast. The mass took form, until what stood in front of Morgan was a young girl dressed in a black cloak. Beneath the hood of the cloak Morgan cold make out the girl’s pale, childish face.

“—is Nimue, my apprentice. She knew your mother, Mistress Morgan, when Igerna was only a child.”

The obvious fact that the girl in front of her was far too young to have really have known Morgan’s mother as a young woman, yet along a child, did not occur to Morgan. It was too clear that the magicks Merlin was dealing with were both deep and dark.

“How do you do?” said the child.

Merlin studied Morgan. “Perhaps,” he said, “Fate had something particular in mind when She sent you to me. We shall have to only wait and see. In the meantime you will be my servant, and my apprentice. Nimue will teach you what you need to know.”

Morgan only stared at the wizard. “I’ll never serve you, Merlin. You’ll never make me.” Yet underneath her bold exterior, she wondered what it was that she could. In a blind panic, she burst into a sprint towards the small room with the winch, but Morgan quickly reached out and grabbed her shoulder. The fabric of her dress in his hand, Merlin jerked her towards him; her own momentum knocked her legs out from under her and she went plummeting to the ground, save for the side which was held up by the piece of dress in Merlin’s hand.

“You may find me more persuasive than you expect, Mistress Morgan,” Merlin said, the grip of his hand now painfully tight upon the flesh and bone of her shoulder. “Nimue.”

The girl fastened a set of black hand-irons, chained to the wall, one to each of Morgan’s wrists. “They are enchanted against magic,” Nimue said. “There is no escape.”

“Nimue, begin the lessons.”

“Yes, master,” the child said to the wizard. Nimue knelt down in front of Morgan, studying her. She reached out with her hand, felt the contour’s of Morgan’s face and neck, then simply stared at Morgan, deep into her eyes.

_The irises of Nimue’s blue eyes expand until they fill the whole of Morgan’s vision. Morgan is falling, unable to grasp a hold on anything in the great abyss she finds herself in. Slowly, pain begins to rise up her legs, spreading more quickly to her chest, her arms, until it has shot through her entire body. The pain gets worse by the second; excruciatingly worse, as it burns through her head, her chest, her flesh with a fire which seems as if it will immolate her. Through it all, she wishes to cry out, scream in pain, but she cannot get the air._

_ All she can manage is a single whispered word: “Why?”_

_ In the blackness, she can hear a child’s voice answer, “As a lesson.”_

* * *

The cold, rough dirt under her was the first thing that entered Morgan’s consciousness. Then came questions: Where was she? Where was her warm bed in the castle’s best rooms? And only as full consciousness came ever closer did the memories of the night before return to her.

“Merlin,” she said, still half-asleep, with bitter vehemence in her voice. “Nimue.”

“Good morning,” responded Nimue, quietly. Morgan opened her eyes to see the girl seated in front of her. “I hope you slept well?”

Morgan only glared at her.

Nimue walk to a bookcase, took a tome off the shelf. “What I cast last night,” began Nimue, “was a mind-spell, used to create illusion, hallucinations, even—as in your case—pain.” She flipped through the book until she came to a page, and then set the tome in front of Morgan. “You’ll have to use an incantation, of course; you’re not advanced enough to cast without a word, as I did. Try the spell.”

Morgan would not give in so easily, she vowed; and spit on the page of the book. “Merlin enjoys breaking in a strong-willed bitch,” Nimue said. She pulled a knife from the folds of her robe—where had that been?—and held it to Morgan’s breast. “But Merlin has given me a job, and I will complete it.”

Morgan could feel the blade up against the bosom of her dress. Nimue held her left hand in place with her right to steady it. She would would use the knife, Morgan knew. Morgan had disrupted life in the workshop, threatened Nimue’s place as apprentice. What did Nimue know but to eliminate the competition?

Morgan looked down at the book. “_Sar’ok’n_,” she read, still weak ad tired. “_Y’gryk_.” Nothing happened.

Nimue applied more pressure to the knife on Morgan’s breast. “Focus.”

Morgan repeated the incantation, concentrated on the spell matrix. Nimue flinched from the spell’s pain, dropped the dagger. Quickly regaining her composure, the girl picked up the dagger, returned it to her robe. “Not bad,” she said. “Of course, you can’t expect to harm _me_.”

The young girl seemed so fragile in front of her that Morgan wasn’t convinced, but she asked the obvious question instead. “Why bother causing pain at all?”

“Pain brings control,” Nimue said, as if it were a memorized credo drilled into her hundreds of times by Merlin. “Control brings power. And that is what magic is—_power_. Power over the elements, over spirits, over men and their emotions—all power. But someone has to use it. She must not shirk from it.”

_No. Nimue is wrong. Merlin is wrong._ _There has to be another way._ “Why can’t you use your power to heal, or to help.”

It was Merlin who answered. “What is a sorcerer but a greater type of man? A sorcerer is one able to transcend their limitations. We are a new breed of men; it is our right and destiny to take control, remake the world in our image.

“Magic is a means to an end, a tool—nothing else. We have no obligations to lesser beings. They’re like dogs to us. You’ll be a difficult student, Morgan. Yet time will teach you the truth of my words. Nimue, continue with the lesson. I have my morning classes with Master Arthur. I’ll send him your regrets, Mistress Morgan.”


	4. Chapter 4

The lessons continued. Morgan continued to practice her spellcraft, just as she had done before, except now she did it in handirons under the watchful eyes of Nimue and, during the night, Merlin. The two worked her hard, leaving her little time for rest. Worse, they would speak of power and cruelty as operating together through magic, a philosophy which Morgan found particularly repugnant, yet her every objection was refuted by the girlish Nimue. It disturbed Morgan that their evil made so much sense on their own terms.

Yet it was clear to Morgan that they would never persuade her to join them. As self-consistent as their cruel ethic might be, it was not hers: she believed in hope and love and good will to men. It was only a matter of time until she escaped from the clutched of the magician and his apprentice—and when she did, she vowed, she would work to stop his evil, although she did not know how. Merlin was a much more powerful wizard.

Nimue, however, was less of an obstacle. When Merlin left each morning, the main impediment to Morgan’s escape became the hand-irons which bound her wrists. Nimue had spoken true that they were enchanted against magic; Morgan could invoke no spell to cause them to open.

Yet Nimue had said nothing to imply that the workings of the irons themselves were magical, and the locking mechanism seemed plain enough. All they needed to open was a simple key, likely enough. But if Merlin were to hide a key, where would he put it? There were so many places in the workshop a key could be, and it was not as if she were to free to look in each. Even using magic, the task was too daunting: she had no idea where to start.

There was another possibility. The irons themselves were old and rusted; if they were not magical, they could perhaps be broken? Yet with what? Morgan’s eyes quickly fell upon the weapons which lined the walls: swords, balls and hammers, maces, morningstars, axes, scourges, crosss-bows, daggers, and many other weapons. She looked at the sharp blades—could they break through iron? There was only one way to find out.

Morgan, obviously, could not go to the weapons. Yet a weapon levitating across the room would be sure to tip off Nimue—unless Morgan timed it just right. And so Morgan waited for her opportunity.

Days passed, days in which she was ruthlessly driven by Merlin and Nimue to cast spell after spell until her body would rebel against the sheer volume of energy that was passing through it as a conduit. Morgan was weak, she knew, but she could harness the power needed to float a weapon if the wizards would only give her the opportunity.

At last, one day, Nimue began to eat her lunch, her back to Morgan. Morgan’s chance had at last come. “_Cw’rl wy’vr alo kasr_,” she whispered, hoping to keep her voice too low for Nimue to hear it. Morgan reached out with her mind, getting a grip on a wicked-looking battle-axe and lifting it gently into the air off of its support on the wall. The axe was heavy, and Morgan, in her weakened state, had to strain to keep it in the air. If she let it fall prematurely, the game was lost. She had to continue without distracting Nimue.

“_Cw’rl wy’vr alo kasr_,” she repeated again softly, focusing her mind on the axe. Finally, the axe hung in the air above Morgan’s wrist, and with relief Morgan let it fall. It landed on the iron between her hands, and with a spark, broke them open.

Nimue rose, spinning around to see what was the cause of the commotion. She pulled her dagger from her robe, but Morgan made a gesture and the dagger went flying from the girl’s hand. She made another gesture, and Nimue fell to her knees, crying out with a bloodcurdling shriek.

“Do not be sure,” Morgan said to the girl, “which of us is the greater.” And with that, Morgan grabbed two nearby spellbooks, walked to the small room, pulled the lever, and let the counterbalance pull her and the room back up to the top of the western tower.

* * *

When Morgan descended the staircase from the Western Tower, the first she ran into was Susanna, the housekeeper.

“My lady,” Susanna said, “we have been looking for you for quite some time.” The housekeeper said nothing more, her silence speaking volumes.

“Susanna, get my things together,” Morgan commanded. “Alert my servants to prepare for our departure.”

“So soon? Sir Ector will be saddened.”

So be it. “I cannot stay with—I cannot stay, Susanna. It must be so.”

“What will you tell young Arthur?”

Morgan started, looked at Susanna again. Those old eyes see everything, Morgan realized. “I don’t know, Susanna, I don’t know. Do you know where I can find him?”

“Have you checked the courtyard, my lady?”

“No, Susanna, I have not.”

* * *

Morgan at last found Arthur, he was sitting on the bench next to the fountain, a peach blossom in his hand. He stared at it, intent.

“Hello, Arthur,” she said.

He started, dropping the blossom. “Morgan!” he exclaimed. “Where have you been? We’ve searched the entire castle and couldn’t find you. Father’s been in a frenzy and we were so worried—”

Quietly, Morgan took her finger and laid it over his lips. “Hush,” she said. “There is no time. I have to leave.”

“Leave?” asked Arthur, visibly stunned. “but you’ve been here less than a month. You….did I do something wrong?”

“No, of course not, Arthur,” Morgan assured him, her heart breaking. “But I cannot remain here, under the same roof as that monster.”

“Monster?” Here was Arthur, Morgan thought, the innocent, naïve boy she had met less than a month ago, with whom she had spent every morning since, except those most recent ones which she spent as Merlin’s prisoner, in the cavern beneath the castle. The boy who had never known loss. The boy who would never be able to see his tutor for the reprobate he was.

“Merlin, Arthur. Your tutor. Leave him. He’ll cause your ruin.”

Arthur was distressed, confused, and overwhelmed, Morgan could tell, but what could she do? How could she possibly protect him, so innocent, from the evil which loomed over him. She could not, but she could not abandon him either—could she? “You must be mistaken, my lady,” he said, a struggle for control paralleling on his face what she felt in her heart. “There must be a mistake. Merlin’s just a tutor. He takes care of me, he—”

“There’s no mistake, Arthur.” But wasn’t there? How could it not be a mistake that they were being pulled apart like this? How could this be anything other than a monstrous aberration?

“Come with me,” she said to him. “Come away from this place, back to Tintagel.”

Yet she knew what his response would be. Arthur was not an imaginative boy; there would be no way he could conceive leaving the safety of the life he knew, of Sir Ector and Merlin and Susanna, even to come to her. “I cannot, my lady,” he said, shocked. “This is my home. My father, and Merlin—”

“Nor can I stay,” she said. She could feel a tear, soon followed by its brother, tracing its way down her cheek. She looked to Arthur: why did it have to come to this? “I’ll miss you, Arthur,” she said. Then, ending things as they started, she leaned in and brought her lips to his.

He returned her kiss, and for a moment there they were, their mouths locked in a ferocious physical embrace. But like all things, the moment passed.

“Come with me,” she urged him one last time. One last desperate plea.

“My lady—”

“Master Arthur.” Morgan and Arthur raised their heads in unison to look at Merlin upon the balcony above them, overlooking the courtyard.

“One moment, Merlin,” he said, and turned to Morgan.

“Farewell, Arthur,” she told him.

* * *

The sound of the lift gently descending down to the workshop alerted Nimue of Merlin’s arrival. She finished tidying the jars of swinesblood and goats-heart, and the faced the enchanter as he exited the small wooden room.

“Nimue,” he said, “can you guess whom I saw today?”

There was nothing to do but answer. “Mistress Morgan?”

“Yes,” answered Merlin. “Which is interesting, because I could swear that I left her down here with you, chained.”

“I’m sorry, master. She used a spell, and—”

“A spell? What spell?”

The spell I taught her when she first was captured. The pain spell.”

“And simple pain incapacitated you?”

“I’m sorry, master.”

“You will be, pet, do not worry about that.” He walked to the wall, passed the many weapons which lined it. His hand hovered above the battle-axe—returned by

Nimue—that Morgan had used to escape, then took a scourge which hung next to it. “What did you teach the Lady Morgan about pain?”

“That pain brings control, and control brings power, and power is the essence of magic.”

“And you let the Lady Morgan gain power over you? You know what she means to me, Morgan, how dangerous she could be. She would have been a powerful asset if turned, Nimue, but now she is a mere liability. It would have been better if we had killed her when she was in her hands.”

“That can still be arranged, master, if we do it quickly.”

“No,” answered Merlin, “I think not. She may yet still prove to be of use. But evidently you have not adequately learned the lessons you yourself taught to her.”


	5. Chapter 5

“What?” Arthur looked up at the owner of the hand which shook his hand. “Merlin?”

“Yes, Master Arthur. It is time to get up. Quickly!”

Arthur just wanted to return to unconsciousness and not have to worry about his tutor’s commands. “What time is it?”

“Several hours until dawn. We have much to do.”

Reluctantly, Arthur pulled himself out of bed and pulled on his shirt and trowsers. Then, still groggy, he followed Merlin as the tutor led the way to the stables.

They found the stable boy napping in a bale of hay. “I’m sorry, m’lords,” he said when they woke him, “but I didn’t expect none so early.”

“It doesn’t matter what you expect,” Merlin noted, but simply instructed the boy to get two horses ready, one for himself and one for Arthur.

“Follow me, Arthur,” Merlin said, and was off. It was all Arthur could to follow after him. They rode on for several hours, Arthur having no idea where they were going nor what plans Merlin had in store. At last they came to a large cathedral.

“Do you know where you are, Arthur?” Merlin asked.

“A churchyard, obviously,” Arthur replied. “And there’s a cathedral. And a town besides. But which town, or anything beyond that, no.”

Merlin raised a finger to the horizon. “Do you see that castle?” he asked.

Arthur looked where Merlin was pointing. There was indeed a castle, large and ornate—much larger than his father’s and probably even larger than the Lady Morgan’s castle, Tintagel. “Yes,” he said.

“That is Caerleon,” Merlin answered, “the castle of the late King Uther. It was in that castle that he held his feasts and banquets. In that castle I lived as his advisor for many years, as did his stepdaughter, your friend the Lady of Cornwall.” At the mention of Morgan, Arthur grew thoughtful. He wondered what she was doing that very moment, then realized that she was without a doubt sleeping. “But now,” Merlin continued, “the castle lays empty, save for the servants entrusted with its upkeep. Since the death of Uther, there has been no king in Britain.”

Arthur of course knew this, but he didn’t see the big deal. Uther had died when he was ten, and ever since life continued.

“Come on,” said Merlin, and led Arthur into the cathedral all the way up the aisle, stopping in front of the altar. “Kneel and pray to your god,” Merlin instructed.

Arthur knelt down in front of the altar. What should he say? Arthur went to mass every Sunday with his father, of course, but he never felt particularly close to God. Dear God, he thought, please bless me and my father and Merlin . . . and the Lady Morgan. Help me to be ever mindful of your grace, and heedful of your message of salvation. Amen.

He looked up to Merlin. “Finished?” asked his tutor. “Very well.” He led the way back out of the cathedral. “Look. There.”

Once again, Arthur looked in the direction indicated. What he found was, in a corner of the courtyard, a large boulder with a sword stuck in it. “There is an inscription on the blade,” Merlin said. “Read it.”

_Whosoever pulleth this sword is born the rightful King of all—_

“The rest of the inscription is covered by the stone,” Arthur noted.

“Of all Britain, obviously,” said Merlin. “Whoever pulls out the sword becomes King of all of Britian.”

“And Ireland as well?”

“Yes, also Ireland.” Arthur nodded with understanding. It seemed a strange way to decide on a ruler, Arthur thought, but he decided that there had to be worse ways. “Now draw it.”

“The sword? But it says—”

“I know what it says.”

Tentatively, Arthur placed his hand on the sword and began to pull. He met not a little resistance, but he succeeded in getting the sword out.

Merlin nodded. He raised his face to the rising sun and called out, “Someone has pulled the sword from the stone!” His voice, it seemed to Arthur, carried far across the morning air, his voice echoing and reverberating throughout the churchyard and into the village. For a moment, Arthur even wondered if Morgan was right, and if Merlin could be using magic to project his voice. Regardless, half-dressed men and women began to come out of their small shanties, awakened from their slumber, risen and come to see the source of the commotion.

“The boy,” Merlin said for the benefit of the crowd, “has pulled the sword from the stone. Arthur, return the sword.”

Arthur did so, grateful to get rid of it and embarrassed of all the attention.

“Would anyone else care to try and draw it?”

“We’ve been through this before,” one of the women said. “No one can draw the sword from the stone. It’s just not possible.”

“Yet, obviously it was done,” pointed out Merlin. “You watched the boy return it.”

“He has a point, Arsle,” said a man. “I should try.” He did so, without success. A few others also tried their hand at it, with equal success.

“Arthur,” Merlin commanded at last.

“Do I have to?” Merlin did not answer. “Very well.” Once again, Arthur grabbed the sword’s hilt, pulled it slowly. The crowd stood in silence as they watched him; then, they started to whisper. The woman named Arsle dropped to one knee. “Long live the King!” she said.

* * *

“Vivienne!”

The demoness rose out of the lake before him—almost human, but hideously repulsive, the flesh rotting and water-logged. “Merlin, it is good to see you again,” she said. “How fares my daughter?”

“Her power as a sorceress grows, albeit she is not without fault.”

Vivienne nodded. “Do not be easy on her, Merlin. Children thrive best under cruelty.” Merlin said nothing. “Do you have the boy?”

“I do. Uther’s son. He has pulled the sword from the stone from the stone, and now he should be the King of all Britain. If the people accept him, of course.”

“And if not,” Vivienne said, “he will hunt them down and make them accept him. How many men would he kill to become king? How far will flawed man go to feel the type of ennobling power we hold as a matter of course? I assume you come for the sword.”

“Yes, Vivienne. Although I am not so sure. The boy is an innocent. He knows nothing of cruelty or of war.”

“You have prepared him?”

“I have. But perhaps I was too subtle.”

“Only time will tell some things, Merlin. But I rather think not. It is in man’s nature to desire power. Especially this boy’s—it’s in his blood: remember the atrocities his father committed—the rape of the boy’s mother, no less. Put Calagwllch into his hand and he will become like all men: driven by the lust for power. I can just see it, Merlin. Villages burning. Children slain. Wives kept as prizes of war. I _will_ have my vengeance on humanity. Do you know what they do to my lake? And I am sure it will only get worse. But he must have the sword.”

“He’s just a boy,” Merlin argued. “He won’t be able to handle it.”

“He’ll be able to kill,” Vivienne assured him. “Just wait and see. Who better than a boy to be ruled by his passions? The boy shall hold Calagwllch, and will become King by virtue of its power. And you, Merlin, shall return to Caerleon and pass yet again into power. How long ago was it that you poisoned Uther?”

“Almost a decade, Vivienne.”

“And all those years passed in anarchy. Now the people shall have their taste of tyranny. We’ve waited lifetimes for this to come to pass, Merlin. Now the plans we made are come to fruition. With your firm hand and my sword, I have no doubt he will make an excellent tyrant. The mortals deserve no less. Pain, war, suffering, oppression: they all inflict it on each other anyway. But they should leave my Lake alone. Oh, I’ll enjoy watching the sickly children, the dying fathers, the impoverished widows.”

“As will I.”

Vivienne looked at Merlin, her lidless eyes gazing into his soul. “What troubles you, Merlin?”

Merlin sighed. There was no hiding anything from Vivienne. “The daughter of Igerna le Fay has reached womanhood and stands ready to oppose me. The blood of Faerie runs as strong in her veins as it did in her mother, and she is skilled in sorcery, trained by my own spellbooks, stolen from me. Her fate is obscured from me, Vivienne, and that upsets me. We both know that those who would use Faerie for their own purposes are blind to their own defeat.”

“We cannot fight what is fated by Faerie, Merlin. But it is foolish to worry about that which cannot be helped. If the Lady of Cornwall is as strong as you fear, then any battle between the two of you will unleash glorious destruction on Britain, and is that not just what we desire? More likely, she will not risk any such outcome.”

* * *

When Arthur heard the whistle, he descended the hill to the lake as Merlin had instructed him. What he found there was not what he expected—although if asked exactly what he had expected, he would not have been able to say. Instead, there was a beautiful woman, crowned in fair golden hair, with milky white skin, _hovering_ over the lake.

“Arthur,” said Merlin, “this is Vivienne, the Lady of the Lake.”

Arthur looked at the wondrous spirit, unsure of what to do or to say. At last, he dropped to one knee. “Good day, my lady,” he said to her.

“Good day, Arthur,” said the Lady of the Lake. “Merlin tells me you need a sword.”

“Yes, my lady,” Arthur answered. “I pulled a sword from a stone, but Merlin says it isn’t any good for battle. Besides, it has a nice inscription on the blade, and I’d like to keep it as a keepsake.”

“And for what do you need a sword?”

“Well, it seems that whoever pulled a certain sword—the one with the inscription, the one I’d like to keep—is chosen by God to be the King of Britain. As it turns out, that’s me. But Merlin says not everyone is going to be happy with there going to be a king again. I’d rather not go to war against anyone, but Merlin says I might have to, for the sake of the country. And if I do, I’ll need a sword.”

Vivienne paused a moment, looking at him with piercing blue eyes. “Very well, then,” she said at last. “Arthur, behold Calagwllch.”

From the lake, there rose the tip of a sword, then a blade, then a hilt, grasped by a hand whose wrist receded beneath the water. It glistened in the sun, and Arthur could all but gasp at its magnificence. “My lady,” he said, “what could I do for such a sword?”

Vivienne only smiled, kindly.

“What would you do for such a sword, young king?”

“Anything,” said Arthur.

“Do you so swear?”

“I do.”

“Then I will come to you when the time is right. For now, simply use it, boy. Destroy those who resist your lordship. Lay waste to their lands. Burn their villages. May victory be thine, O King of Britain, and all shall fear you.”

Vivienne bent and took the sword. She handed it, hilt first, to Arthur. “Calagwllch is yours.”

Arthur took it, feeling the weight of the sword, and thinking of the damage it would do in battle. _With this sword, Calagwllch, nothing stands between him and absolute rule over Britain. He can almost feel the power surge through him. He is the King. _


	6. Chapter 6

“There are still signs of rebellion in the Eastern Baronies,” said Merlin.

Arthur sighed. Being king was not as easy as he imagined—especially king of country that had been in a state of anarchy for almost a year. Without Merlin’s experience (he had been advisor to the previous king, Uther, as well) and advice, Arthur knew he would be completely lost.

“I’d advise you for you to crush it as quickly as possible,” Merlin said, as the two of them stood over a series of maps spread across the large table. “Send Sir Aaron—he’ll teach the rebels a lesson.”

“You don’t think he’ll be too harsh?”

“You can never be too harsh to a rebel,” Merlin told him. “You have to send a clear message, or else another uprising will break out again later on. Are you not the God-chosen king of our people, Arthur? Prove it to them.”

Arthur looked again at the maps again and squinted. It was difficult to keep them from becoming simply a mass of black lines on parchment. At last he nodded. “Very well, Merlin,” he said. “You will take care of it?”

“If that is your command, my lord.”

“Talk to Sir Lawrence while you are at it,” Arthur added. “Perhaps he can take care of the Welsh.”

Arthur was about to ask about Scotland when a maidservant—plain and with none of the personality Susanna had had at his father’s castle—entered. “The Lady Morgan le Fay of Cornwall is here to see you, my liege,” she said.

“Morgan,” her name trailed off Arthur’s lips.

“Perhaps I had better leave, Arthur,” Merlin noted.

“Yes, that might be for the best, Merlin,” Arthur agreed. Inwardly, he was saddened. If there was anytime he needed Merlin’s advice, it was when he was with the Lady Morgan. What did she want of him? “Show her in.”

The maidservant curtsied and left; soon, Morgan entered alone. She looked just as he had remembered her, beautiful and tall, her long brunette hair pulled back behind her Lady’s tiara. Seeing her again awakened all of the old pains; still, he found he was surprised at how happy he was to see her again. “Hello, Morgan.”

“My king,” she said simply, and with an edge.

Arthur’s heart dropped. Why was Morgan so upset with him? Haf his becoming king driven an even deeper wedge between them than had previously existed? Was she perhaps jealous of his improved station, now that she was no longer the higher position? No, of course not—Morgan could see beyond that. Then what?

“Have a seat, Morgan,” he said, pointing to the chair that had been Merlin’s previously. She took it silently. It seemed clear that she would just sit there in silence until Arthur spoke. She was waiting for something. But what? “Are you mad at me, Morgan?” he asked, fearful to hear the answer.

“Yes, Arthur.”

“Morgan, you know I would never do anything to hurt you—”

“That’s not good enough. You know that.”

What _would_ be good enough? Arthur wondered. What would satisfy Morgan? What could win back her love? Could anything? Arthur fervently wished he knew the answers.

“Morgan, what have I done to earn your wrath like this?”

“How can you ask that?” she asked. “You’ve played right into Merlin’s hands. Is there any doubt that that sword-in-the-stone stunt was his doing? And now you’ll be his figurehead. You’ve effectively given him control of all of Britain.”

She paused, her expression changing from one of hard range to one of softer pain. “You wouldn’t leave your home to come with me, but you’ll leave it, leave your father—you’ll leave all of Cornwall!—for Merlin. Are you that eager to get away from me?”

Did she really believe that? “Morgan, you have to know that’s not true. But think of all the good I can do as king. I thought this is what you want me to do.”

“Not if it is what Merlin wants! If that is what you mean to do, then let Merlin go! If you have any chance of doing good as king, it’s without him. If you let him control you, now, he’ll be more dangerous then ever.”

Why didn’t she understand. “Morgan, Merlin was my tutor; he’s cared for me for years. Now he’s my trusted advisor. I need him, and I need his experience. You know he was advisor to King Uther.”

“And my step-father was such a paragon of virtue.”

“Is that what this is all about? You’re mad at Merlin for letting your step-father beat you and your mother?”

“No! I’m mad at Merlin because he’s evil! He’s a monster, Arthur, totally devoid of all human feeling.”

“If there’s one thing I’ll never believe, Morgan, it is that Merlin, who has never been anything but kind to me, even when he was forced to be stern, is evil, any more than I’d believe that you were evil.”

“We all have the capacity for evil in us, Arthur,” Morgan said. “I as much as anyone. And you, too, if you don’t be careful.”

“You have it all wrong, Morgan. We have glorious Britain. History will remember how Merlin and I brought an era of peace and light.”

“Is that what he told you? And you believe his lies?”

“Yes, Morgan, I do. I believe it’s possible for me to make a difference, to make this world a better place because I lived in it. Is that such a terrible thing to believe?”

Morgan didn’t answer for a long time, then stood up. “Good-bye, Arthur,” she said at last.

“Is that why you came here?” asked Arthur. “All of the way from Cornwall simply to berate me? To return only to hurt me some more, and then again leave? To break my heart?

“I’ve missed you, Morgan. I couldn’t bear it if you left again.” He looked up at her. Was there anything he could say to make her stay. “It’s Merlin who’s come between us, Morgan. Can’t we just forget him for now.”

“I can’t forget his evil,” Morgan said. “He is a scourge of humanity.”

“Forget humanity,” Arthur pleaded. “Forget everything. I love you, that’s what matters.”

Morgan lowered herself back into the chair. “I love you, too,” she said. “But—” Suddenly, she broke off, stared into Arthur’s eyes. “Damn Merlin,” she said at last, and leaned in to kiss Arthur for yet a third time. Arthur kissed her back, reveling in the feel of her mouth in his and her body in his arms. This was not the first mischevious kiss of the strange Lady of Cornwall, or the bitter farewell of Morgan’s good-bye kiss. This was a kiss, and he had her here.

“Here?” he asked.

“The table looks sturdy enough,” Morgan said.

* * *

The three sorceresses stared in the scrying basin, watching the two bodies, entangled.

“We are too late, then,” said Melora, Lady of Cyprus and the Waste Lands.

“It is not our place to interfere,” reminded Alcina, Lady of Northgalis and the Out Isles and the eldest of the three sorcerers. “We come only to oppose Merlin. This was Morgan’s decision.”

“It is inconceivable that Merlin will not use this to his advantage,” pointed out the third sorceress, Sabille, the Lady of Eastland and Sorestan. “Will there be a child?”

“There is little that Merlin cannot use to his advantage,” noted Alcina. “Morgan must be allowed to live her life. As for a child, let us see.” She passed her hand over the basin of water, and slowly the scene changed.

_Two men, with swords, are locked in a battle to the death. The one thrusts; the other parries. The one, fit and athletic with dark brown hair, bears the crest of Cornwall upon his shield; this is Mordred, the son of the Lady Morgan le Fay. His combatant has blonde hair and a crest the sorceresses recognize as that of Vivienne of the Lake._

“Whatever can that mean?” asked Melora. “That he was in battle against the champion of Vivienne is an encouraging sign.”

“And yet only the passage of time will tell the true story,” pointed out Sabille. “We have more immediate interests.”


	7. Chapter 7

The gardens of Caerleon were much more expansive than the simple ones of Sir Ector. Yet as she watched the trees stripped bare by autumn, she could not help but think of those gardens, and of those days she would spend with Arthur before her world was turned upside down by Merlin and his terrible magic.

“Penny for your thoughts, my queen?” a woman said.

Morgan looked up to see a fellow noblewoman, elegant and well-dressed, although not one that she recognized. “I’m not a queen, thank you,” said Morgan. Although I have lain with the king.

“Oh, but you are,” said another female voice, this one behind her. Morgan turned around to see another noblewoman. Were the gardens suddenly so popular?

“Not an earthly one, surely,” said yet another noblewoman, coming down the path. “Your own mother was the last to hold that title, and the next to hold it is not even yet born. But you—as are the three of us—are a Queen of Faerie, mistresses all of us of that strange art that the world calls magic. By that virtue, are we not raised among normal women?”

“I have heard people speak that way before,” Morgan said. She was at once uneasy. These women knew of her magic. How much more did they know? What were their motives?

“Merlin seeks to use his power to the destruction and suffering of all mankind,” said the eldest. “It is because of this that he must be opposed. He has no sense of the responsibility a sorcerer owes his less gifted brothers and sisters. He cares only for himself. Yet the four of us alone realize the danger he poses to mankind.”

Damn Merlin, she had said to Arthur. “Merlin lies far beyond my power to oppose,” said Morgan.

“As does it lie beyond each of our powers. Even for the four of us it may be impossible. But we must try—can we abandon Earth to him?”

Damn humanity, Arthur had said to her. And that was just what she was prepared to do. He was right—their happiness together was more important. She would not let Merlin—nor these three sorceresses—get in their way. “He’s too powerful,” Morgan insisted.

“As long as your brother serves as Merlin’s figurehead,” said one, “the wizard’s control over Britain is absolute.”

“Melora,” admonished the oldest of the three sorceresses.

But the damage was done. “Brother?” Morgan asked.

“She has to know, Alcina. ‘Whosever pulleth this sword is born the rightful king of all Britain,’” Melora quoted. “When Merlin wrought that sword, he did not add that phrase idly.”

“Arthur was brought to Sir Ector when he was a child, and nursed at the breast of Ector’s wife,” the third sorceress, neither Melora nor Alcina, told her. “But he is the rightful king, the son of Uther Pendragon, born nine months after the king first raped your mother, the late Igerna le Fay.”

“Take it back,” Morgan said.

“If only we could,” said Melora. “We would all rather it not be so.”

“What will I do? What will I tell Arthur?”

Alcina came to her, placed her hand on Morgan’s shoulder. “Only you can tell us that, my girl.”

* * *

When Morgan entered the chamber, Arthur rose to embrace. It was all she could do to keep him from kissing her. “What’s wrong, Morgan?” he asked. There was no doubt that the pain she felt was clearly evidenced by her ashen face.

Yet how could she start? What could she say? “Sir Ector’s not your father,” she said.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “Of course he’s my father. Who else would be my father?”

“Merlin brought you to Sir Ector when you were still a baby. He can vouch for it himself. Or if he will not, Sir Ector or even Susanna.”

“If Sir Ector is not my father, no one else is. He raised me for nineteen years.”

The sentiment was endearing, but irrelevant. Morgan had to get this over with. “Your father, as it turns out, was Uther Penndragon, and so you are indeed the rightful king of Britain.”

“But then—”

“Yes,” Morgan said. There it was out. “Your mother was the king’s wife, Igerna le Fay.”

The blood drained from his face, just as it had from hers. “My God,” he said. “Your mother. My mother. What have we done? What are we to do?”

“To do?” she said.

“We can’t continue like—we can’t continue. You’re my sister.”

His sister! Why did fate have to make him her sister? Or if they must be siblings, why couldn’t they have grown up together, him as the prince and heir to Uther, instead of Merlin spiriting him off in the dark of the night? “Your half-sister. The blood relation is the same as first cousins. They marry all the time among the royalty.”

“We have the same mother, Morgan. What happened was _incest_.”

“And adultery—but that didn’t seem to bother you. Both three thousand year old thou shalt nots.”

“You don’t understand. I’d have to abscond the throne if anyone ever heard of this.”

“So your crown is more important than I am?”

Arthur looked at her, as much rage on his face as she had on hers. “The people would be at me for years. We’d have no peace.”

“Who cares what they think, Arthur. ‘Forget humanity.’ Didn’t you say that? Isn’t that what you said?”

“That was different, Morgan.”

* * *

Morgan stood in the grove she had been in that morning. “If you can hear me,” she said, “I am ready.”

She felt a weight on her shoulder. “We are very sorry,” said Melora. “You must know that.”

“Merlin will pay for what he did to my family,” Morgan said. “My father, my mother, my brother, and me. I will make him pay. I swear—even if it means destroying Arthur.”

“Do not be rash, my child,” said Alcina. “You may find that you cannot keep your oath.”

“Yet if Arthur can be removed from the throne,” said Melora, “it is best that we do it, whatever the means. By the same token, if Merlin can be destroyed, we’d best do it. And if death can be stopped, we had best do it.”

“This is no time for jests, Melora,” Alcina chided.

“What jest?” asked Melora. “Arthur is armed with Calagwllch. Already the Lord of Lothian has raised an insurrection against Arthur, and the king’s troops has put it down easily. Your brother is invincible, Morgan.”

And somewhere deep inside her, Morgan was glad.


	8. Epilogue (Morgan Speaks)

_And so it was. The Lord of Lothian, not lightly turned away, raised a second insurrection with twice as many troops, and the aid of the four Queens of Faerie. Between Arthur’s sword and Merlin’s magic, it too was put down. We sent monsters and powerful knights against Arthur himself; Vivienne’s sword never failed to protect him._

_Melora even went so far as to bring Arthur a poisoned robe—poisoned as the robe Medea brought to the bride of Jason was poisoned in the ancient tales—but Merlin suggested she wear it first, and she was consumed by the flames of her own spells. It took weeks of our skillful healing to restore her to her health._

_It was around that time that I learned what the other three Queens of Faerie had already seen—that Arthur’s child grew inside me. I bore that child, raised him, and loved him. He was my son, after all. For any who would blame me for what he did, I only offer the feeble excuse that I did my best, the best that any mother could. My son. Mordred._

_But the years passed, as I said. The world was beginning to regain some semblance of normalcy. It seemed as if Arthur, not so young now, had always reigned from his castle at Caerleon, as if Merlin had always stood beside him there, as if the land had always had to pay the terrible burden it bore. Life went on._

  
**END OF "THE ORPHANS"**

**Author's Note:**

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